It was while Nan Whitcomb was wrapped in his bathrobe awaiting her crucial exercise—penetration—that Brandon, entering the bedroom to remove his clothes, was startled by the ringing of the telephone.
Usually, Brandon turned down his phones before an exercise was about to begin, but unaccountably he had forgotten to do so before Nan's arrival. Well, accountably, perhaps, he told himself, because his mind was still occupied by thoughts of his failure to make contact with Gayle last night, and by his apprehension of what immediately lay ahead with Nan.
The phone was still ringing, and since Nan had just gone into the bathroom, Brandon felt safe in picking it up.
The voice on the other end was Gayle's. "Paul? Am I disturbing you?"
"Not at all."
"I'm just waking up completely, and my head's a little cobwebby—but I found the candy and have a feeling that you were here last night. Were you?"
Brandon smiled to himself. "Well, as they say, if a tree falls in a forest, and no one hears it, did that tree really fall in the forest? Well, my dear, I fell at your feet last night, but no one heard me. Was I there? Yes, I was there."
Gayle sounded stricken. "You were? Oh, dear God, forgive me. I'm truly sorry. I dozed off on you."
"You were exhausted, so it's understandable."
"Do forgive me. I wanted to be with you. Paul, how can I make it up to you?"
"By being with me tonight. Why don't I pick you up for dinner? That is, if you won't be too tired?"
"I won't be tired tonight. I'm just having my hair done this afternoon."
"Let's say I come by at seven thirty. I'll have a reservation at Restaurant Lapin Agile. French, but still casual."
"I'll be ready."
"Can't wait."
He hung up, turned off the sound on the telephone, then quickly turned off the sound on his two extension phones and hastened back to the bedroom to get ready for the reappearance of Nan Whitcomb.
He had taken off the last of his clothes when he saw Nan, still wearing his terry cloth robe, standing in the bedroom doorway observing him lovingly.
Slowly, almost teasingly, she unbelted the white robe and slipped out of it. Casting it aside, briefly allowing him to take in her nudity, she advanced toward him. As she approached him, he became aware that she had sprayed herself with some kind of exotic-smelling perfume. She kissed him on the cheek and proceeded to the bed, where she sat down.
"Today's the day, isn't it?"
Momentarily, Brandon felt unnerved. She was treating this session like a long-awaited honeymoon night. "Yes, it is."
"Penetration," she said softly.
He tried to strengthen his resolve to remind her, after it was over, that they were not lovers but teacher and patient, and that soon her therapy would be finished and their relationship would end.
"Non-demand penetration," he emphasized. "You are not expected to respond."
She didn't pout, but the movement of her bony neck and shoulders had the effect of pouting. "Why non-demand?"
"Because this exercise is to prove to you that you can again be entered totally and without pain, and nothing else has to be proved."
She blinked at him. "I hope I'm all right, Paul. I can't imagine having that awful tightening with you."
He tried to maintain some kind of professional stance. "If our exercises have gone well—and I think they have—there should be no problem."
Nan lifted her legs onto the bed and pushed herself against the pillows at the headboard. Brandon walked to the bed and lowered himself beside her.
"What do I do now?" she inquired innocently.
"We'll start with frontal caressing, taking turns, to get ourselves into the mood."
"I am in the mood, Paul," she said simply.
"That helps."
"I'm wet down there." She offered a shy smile. "Not difficult. I've been looking at you."
Somehow, he sensed, he had to slow her down. "Fine. But before we start, I'd like to say a few things."
"Whatever you want."
"Your only prolonged relationship with a male has been with Tony Zecca. As a result, you may still have some negative body images about yourself."
"I think maybe you've helped me overcome them. I feel more attractive now."
He concurred. "You are attractive. At the same time, with Tony you had no pleasure, only pain, and no orgasms."
"That's true."
Brandon went on doggedly. "With Tony you turned off all your physical receptors, experienced no joyous physical sensation. My goal, in our program, has been to get you in touch with your own sensuality."
She smiled less shyly. "I'm positive you've succeeded, Paul. I've never felt ours was an artificial relationship only. Even though this is paid for, and we talk to a therapist, I felt from early on that what's between us is something more. I've stopped thinking of you as a surrogate." She hesitated. "That's good, isn't it?"
Brandon wasn't sure if he was perspiring, but he felt as if he were. He wanted to let her know, in these moments, that a vital part of their therapeutic relationship was disengaging themselves from each other soon and being able to say good-bye to all that had been happening between them. This was the time to tell her that, and yet in observing her vulnerability, he could not bring himself to do so.
"Yes," he said weakly, "that is good, and I appreciate it." He paused. "All right, Nan, let's get into our feelings and relax and have pleasure in our relationship. Close your eyes and let's begin."
Brandon began to stroke her, and after that, she stroked him. She was extremely receptive to his touch and had become expert in her caressing of him.
There would be no problem with his erection. He was ready for her.
He looked at her. "All right, Nan. Let's try penetration. Non-demand penetration. I'll lie here, flat on my back. You lift yourself up and get on top of me. Then, very gradually, lower yourself down on me, until I've entered you fully. I won't move. Don't you move either, once I'm inside you. If you have any pain, let me know at once."
Nan nodded eagerly and climbed above him. His erection held, and he braced himself for their first contact.
"Remember, Nan, no thrusting from either of us. Even if you feel like it, don't. Just get used to my being inside you."
She had his penis in one hand as she arranged herself over it and moved it until it touched her vaginal lips, and then she eased herself downward. When his penis slid into her, she continued downward until she engulfed him.
"No pain?" he asked.
"It's wonderful," she said breathlessly. "I feel ecstatic. Let me move a little, Paul."
"No."
"Please . . ."
"Absolutely not."
"But I'm marvelous now. I'm all well. Paul, darling, I love it . . . I love it more than anything . . ."
With his hands firmly on her arms, he lifted her off him and withdrew, and she fell beside him, hugging and snuggling and kissing him and whispering, "And I love you even more. I'll love you forever."
He tried to respond, without being too responsive, and as quickly as it could be done, he brought their exercise session to an end.
Once she was dressed, and at the door, she halted briefly. "The same time tomorrow?"
"Yes, Nan."
"Will it be more, more of the same?"
"Yes."
"But closer to the real thing? I mean, moving?"
"Yes," he said almost inaudibly.
She kissed him. "I do love you," she said.
Peering through the living room window, he saw her drive off. Troubled, he went through his apartment, turning on the volume of the telephones again.
The resolve to overcome his problem—Nan's obvious emotional involvement with him—now had become an urgent necessity. Lingering over his bedroom phone, he lifted the receiver and dialed the Freeberg Clinic. He asked to speak to Dr. Freeberg. He learned that the therapist was out on a business call but would be back in an hour or so. Brandon left word for Freeberg to phone him as soon as he could.
Pacing about his living room, puffing away at his pipe, Brandon brooded over the matter. He tried, in his mind, to clarify every instance of Nan's involvement with him, its seriousness, her determination to block out their professional relationship and regard him as her real-life boyfriend. This could not continue, he knew, and yet he was incapable of telling her it was a professional relationship that would be over within a week. He knew that, much as he hated to do so, he would have to allow Dr. Freeberg to take him off the case and replace him with another male surrogate to wind up the therapy with Nan.
An hour and a half passed before Dr. Freeberg returned his call.
"How are you, Paul?" Freeberg wanted to know.
"Never better."
"Your message says you wanted to consult me about something."
"There is something I wanted to report, Doctor. I—" And then what he had prepared himself to say, what he had rehearsed, became stuck in some recess of his throat.
He pictured Nan being summoned by Dr. Freeberg tomorrow and being told that Paul Brandon had to be taken off her case and that a substitute would appear in his place.
He could imagine Nan's consternation at this unexpected turn of events. Somehow, she would perceive that the man she loved had rejected her. Somehow, she would be frightened by the idea of starting all over with a stranger. It would surely set her therapy back by weeks, if not end it altogether.
Brandon realized that no matter how well Freeberg managed it, this would be a brutal blow to Nan, as brutal as anything ever inflicted upon her by Tony Zecca. Brandon knew that he could not be the one responsible for inflicting more pain on Nan.
"Please go on, Paul," Brandon heard Freeberg say.
"Actually, I didn't want to consult you," Brandon said, "but merely report something to you. It's good news, and I didn't want to hold it back."
"What is it, Paul?"
"Nan and I had our initial non-demand penetration today. I'd say her vaginismus is cured. There were no obstructions. It went well. I'm sure she's cured."
"You're positive?"
"Just about."
"But you haven't tried penetration and thrusting yet, have you?"
"Not yet."
"Try that tomorrow, and let me know. If that comes off well, then we'll be positive she's cured, and you'll deserve congratulations. Good luck."
Good luck, he thought bitterly, hanging up the phone.
He was worse off than before. He hadn't the faintest idea of how he would handle Nan Whitcomb tomorrow.
At least tonight with Gayle he'd have no problem. He wouldn't even hint to her about his fainthearted and evasive talk with Freeberg.
Gayle didn't have to know.
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one hears it, did the tree actually fall?
It had been a happy evening for Brandon and Gayle.
For one thing, Lapin Agile was a cozy restaurant, providing the perfect background for easy conversation. The pianist across the crowded room softly played popular songs of old Montmartre. Three of the walls surrounding them were covered with colorful framed Toulouse-Lautrec posters representing many of the artist's friends from May Belfort and Jane Avril to Aristide Bruant and the Troupe de Mlle. Eglantine.
Most of all, adhering to a promise he had made to himself when he had gone to pick up Gayle, Brandon saw to it that there had been no discussion of their therapy activities. Any references to their jobs as surrogates or to their patients were strictly avoided. He would not allow himself to fall into that trap again. And instinctively, Gayle had gone along with him.
At their rustic wooden table, they had talked about their pasts and their futures, about music, books, movies, about politics, sports, television programs. They had talked, and laughed, about his adventures as a substitute teacher. They had talked about each other, how they felt about each other and what they wanted from their relationship.
Neither could remember, by dinner's end, what they had eaten, only that it had been delicious.
By the time they had finished their desserts, they had fallen into silence, holding hands across the table and speaking only with their eyes.
Tonight, Brandon told himself, was finally the night so long postponed. He was eager to have this breathtaking young woman in his arms and make her a part of him, as he would be a part of her. At last he broke the silence to tell her so.
She nodded. "It's what I've been wanting, too, Paul. Let's go back to my place."
Once in his car, he drew her closer to him and headed toward her house.
Throughout the drive, both were quiet. Brandon could feel his heart quickening with anticipation, like that of an excited schoolboy.
Parking in front of her bungalow, Brandon brought her to him, kissed her avidly, and whispered against her ear, "Let's go inside."
While Gayle was straightening her dress, and smoothing her hair, Brandon went around the car to open the passenger door and help her out.
As she stepped down beside him, Gayle said offhandedly, "There was something I meant to ask you. That patient of yours, the one who has a crush on you—I keep forgetting her name—"
Brandon squirmed uncomfortably, took Gayle by the hand, and started her up the walk. "Nan," he said, barely audible.
"Did you say Nan?"
"That's right."
"I wanted to ask how you made out with her. Was it difficult to break the news to her, that you had to terminate her?"
Playing dumb, Brandon guided Gayle up the three steps to her porch.
She stopped before her door to hunt inside her purse for the key. "Did she take it badly?" Gayle resumed.
Brandon decided he would have to face up to the inevitable and admit the truth. "Gayle, I just couldn't tell her we were winding up."
"Oh, no?"
"I couldn't do it one on one, Gayle. It would have been like executing someone. I just couldn't get around to it, so—"
Gayle, key in hand, was ominously still. "So you reported what was going on to Dr. Freeberg?"
"I started to. In fact, I called Dr. Freeberg to discuss the matter."
"Well, what did he say?"
Brandon was finding this even more difficult than he had expected. "He didn't say anything . . . because I didn't tell him anything."
Gayle's expression was one of incredulity. "You didn't tell Dr. Freeberg that your patient has fallen in love with you and expects to have a real-life romance with you?"
"Gayle, I couldn't. I simply couldn't. It would have been inhumane. To have reached the point I have with her, and then back off and let Dr. Freeberg tell her another man would take my place—it was impossible for me to do."
Gayle stared at him. "And exactly what point have you reached with Nan?"
"I—we—I think we've overcome her vaginismus."
"You mean you're fucking her?"
"Not really. It was only non-demand penetration."
"You're fucking her," Gayle persisted with rising anger, "and you're loving it, and she's loving it and in love with you. And you're doing nothing about it."
"I'm not loving it, and I don't love her," he said heatedly. "I'm just trying to be decent."
"You call that decent? Leading her on when you tell me you don't love her? If that's what you're doing, I think that's rotten. I have an idea that's not what you're doing. I have an idea you like what you're getting from her, and you don't want to give it up."
"Gayle, for Christ's sake, then what am I doing here?"
"That's what I'd like to know. What are you doing here, and what am I doing here with you?"
She jammed her key into the front door and turned it. Brandon reached out and gripped her arm. "Gayle, will you stop this nonsense and be reasonable? I can understand someone being jealous, but when they're jealous without any cause—"
Gayle yanked her arm free. "I am jealous, damn you! And with good cause. It's just not fair!"
"Gayle, please let me come inside and—"
"And what? Let you fuck me the way you're fucking her? No way!"
"Gayle, give me a chance to talk to you."
"I'm not talking to you again until you've broken up with your little Nan or you have Freeberg insist that you do. Until then"—she pushed her door open—"fuck off!"
With that, she ran into the house, slamming the door in his face.
Brandon sat dejectedly behind the wheel of his car in front of her house, trying to decide what to do.
For many minutes, he sought to focus his resentment against Gayle on her. She was being a fool, a childish fool, he kept telling himself, allowing immature jealousy to intervene in their relationship. Her jealousy was so displaced as to be unbelievable.
But to Gayle it was believable, and for some minutes, he tried to see his involvement with Nan from Gayle's point of view. He could see that although she was a professional sex partner, she was not a professional female. Perhaps she knew more about the mechanism of sex than the average woman, just as a physician knew more about the mechanism of health than the average layman. But a physician could not heal himself any more than Gayle could overcome the insecurities of an ordinary woman.
Examining Gayle's anger, Brandon even considered the possible validity of her feeling. Did he enjoy making love to his patient and being loved by her in return? Could Gayle have intuitively hit on some truth there? He examined and reexamined this possibility, and what he emerged with were two stark facts. One was that he was sorry for Nan and wanted to help her but was absolutely not in love with her. The other was that he was deeply in love with Gayle—and was seriously on the verge of losing her for now and forever.
There was only one way for him to prove to Gayle that she—and not a patient named Nan Whitcomb—was his true love. Gayle had spelled out the one proof she would accept. He must personally be forthright with Nan and remind her that their relationship was purely a professional one and would terminate with their next encounter. Or he must in all candor inform Dr. Freeberg of his problem and seek Freeberg's guidance in solving it.
As a so-called professional, he had been performing his work amateurishly. He must speak to Dr. Freeberg at once and be totally honest with him.
Brandon snapped on his dashboard light, held his wrist near it, and peered at his wristwatch.
The time was close to ten forty-five. He half remembered hearing somewhere that Dr. Freeberg kept late hours, writing and reading until midnight at least. If this were true, Dr. Freeberg would still be awake. Brandon had to take a chance. The sooner the better.
With determination, Brandon started his car and began to drive around the neighborhood until he found a shopping area. When he located it, he could see a filling station a block away, its lights on. He drove toward it and saw that the lone attendant was closing down the station but that the door to the glass-enclosed telephone booth nearby was open.
Brandon guided his car past the pumps and parked in a vacant slot near the telephone booth. Getting out, feeling in his pocket for change, and then for his miniature address book, he started for the glass booth.
Inside it, he closed the door and the light went on. Finding Dr. Freeberg's home phone number, Brandon sorted out his change, dropped the required coins into the slot, and dialed Freeberg's number.
There were no more than two rings before Freeberg himself answered the phone.
"Dr. Freeberg? This is Paul Brandon. I hope I didn't wake you."
"Not at all, not at all. I'll be up for hours. Just puttering around with some research for a paper I was planning to write. What's on your mind, Paul?"
"It's something I think is rather important, something regarding my relationship with my patient, Nan Whitcomb. I do need your advice."
There was a pause. "Is this something you meant to discuss with me when you phoned me earlier today?"
"Yes," said Brandon, surprised. "How did you know?"
Freeberg chuckled. "Because your afternoon call was uncharacteristic. It was obvious you had something important on your mind but found yourself unable to get down to it. I'm pleased you've decided to discuss it now. You want to tell me what this is all about?"
"My patient, Nan Whitcomb, she's fallen in love with me," Brandon blurted out.
"Ah, so that's it," Dr. Freeberg said. "You're doing the right thing to tell me. I'd suggest you let me hear it all, omitting nothing.."
For over ten minutes, Brandon spilled out every detail of his series of sessions with Nan. He placed special emphasis on those moments when he perceived that Nan was falling in love with him—from her offer to move in and stay overnight with him to her declaration of love for him this very afternoon.
"I should have discussed this earlier with you, Dr. Freeberg," Brandon concluded, "but I was afraid you'd want to take me off the case and replace me with someone else. I worried that if this happened, it might wound Nan deeply and set her back, after we've made so much progress."
"I can understand your concern," said Dr. Freeberg. Then he inquired, "How many sessions do you have left with her?"
"Two at the most. Possibly, if all continues to go well, I might wind it up with the exercise we have scheduled for tomorrow afternoon."
There was silence on the other end of the line. Dr. Freeberg was thinking this through, Brandon knew, and he waited anxiously.
"All right," said Dr. Freeberg, "I believe I know what must be done. I'm going to call Nan Whitcomb at her hotel right now. I'm going to postpone her session with you tomorrow and set it for the day after. Then tomorrow, I'll see her."
"See her about what?"
"Paul, under no circumstances, at this stage of the therapy, would I see fit to remove you from the case. You're right—it could be a rude shock to her, set her back, and it might take a long time for her to establish a bond with someone else, even if I could find another male surrogate quickly. No, that's out. What I intend to do is tell Miss Whitcomb I want to discuss her case with her. Then I'll"—he paused—"I'm looking through my engagement book here, and I'm tied up until late afternoon . . . so that's it —I'll arrange with Nan Whitcomb to see her late tomorrow. I'll have a good grandfatherly talk with her."
"What can you tell her?"
"Basically, I'll try to get it through to her that her relationship with her surrogate is not a personal one but a professional one. I think I can manage this without doing her any harm. Once this is done, I feel certain it will make it easier, more comfortable, for you to wind up your last exercise with her without further involvement."
"Thanks, Dr. Freeberg. Thank you very much. My fingers are crossed. I hope you'll succeed."
After he had hung up on Dr. Freeberg, Brandon remained standing in the telephone booth. At last he dug into his pocket for more change. Once he'd found the change, he inserted the coins in the phone, and cheerful again, he began to dial Gayle Miller . . .
Late the following afternoon, Tony Zecca sat tensely and watchfully behind the steering wheel of his Cadillac parked less than half a block away from the Freeberg Clinic. His eyes, as they had been for the last three days, remained fastened on the entrance to the clinic, watching for every person who entered and departed.
Still boiling inside at Nan's deceit, Zecca's real rage was directed toward the man who had seduced her and taken her away from him.
Zecca had been obsessed by the need to find out who Nan's seducer and lover was—and to make the bastard pay for it. So far, Zecca had not succeeded in uncovering the bastard's identity for sure. He had suspected, from the outset, that Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the doctor she had always been visiting, was the culprit, but so far, as of this minute, Zecca had not been able to prove it.
The first day of his clinic watch, Zecca had thought he'd had Freeberg nailed down. Parking at his post, across and not far from the clinic, he had gone inside to case the joint. Luckily, at the receptionist's desk, he had found a stack of brochures describing the function of the clinic, and these had included a biography and photograph of the eminent Dr. Arnold Freeberg.
Once he had learned what Freeberg looked like and what he did for his dirty living, Zecca had gone back to his parked car to watch for him. It had been a long and grueling wait, but just before nightfall of that first day, Zecca's patience and endurance had been rewarded.
He had seen Freeberg leave the clinic, lock the front door, and get into his car in the adjoining parking lot to drive to wherever he was shacking up with Nan. In his Cadillac, Zecca had followed the fucking doctor, trying to decide what he'd do with the bastard once he arrived at wherever he was keeping Nan. Freeberg drove up to a new house at the edge of town, drove into the garage, and was greeted at the front door by a plain, plumpish woman, obviously his wife, whom he was cheating on as far as Zecca could make out. This meant that Freeberg had Nan stashed away in some hot love nest somewhere else.
Yesterday, Zecca had grimly waited once more for Freeberg to close up the clinic and leave, and once again Zecca had followed him when he drove off. And for the second time Zecca had seen the two-faced bastard go into his house to join his wife.
Somewhat discouraged, Zecca continued his relentless vigil all the long afternoon of this third day.
Suddenly, through his car door window, he recognized a very familiar figure walking toward the entrance to the Freeberg Clinic. He saw her from behind as she went to the door and then went inside.
Nan herself, on the way to her lover and her daily shot. The bitch. But the hell with her. It was the old bastard he was going to get.
Zecca's instant response at the sight of Nan was to leap out of his car and confront her. He started to open his door, and then did not do so. Getting his hands on Nan right now was pointless. The smart thing to do was to wait and see if she came out of the clinic with a man, and if that man were Freeberg.
Zecca huddled in the driver's seat, alertly watching and waiting.
It was more than twenty minutes, this wait, and it was getting dark when Zecca's patience finally paid off.
He saw Nan herself emerge from the clinic, someone holding the front door open for her to leave. Next, the someone who had held the door for her emerged, too. It was a man, all right, the man, the old prick who was her doctor, none other than Dr. Arnold Freeberg, the very one Zecca had suspected from the start as the sonofabitch who had wooed her away from him.
Locking the clinic door, Freeberg joined Nan, took her by the arm, and started her down Market Avenue, in the opposite direction from where Zecca was parked.
Zecca contained himself. When he was sure that there was a safe distance between the frigging couple and himself, and he could keep them in view without being spotted, he leapt out of his car.
Hugging the darker areas alongside shut-down buildings and store fronts, Zecca tracked the pair.
They walked together only a short distance, then crossed the street, and disappeared into some tall building. Once Nan and her doctor had gone inside, Zecca quickened his step, hastening to find out their secret place of assignation.
Zecca stood before the building now. It was a hotel. The Excelsior Hotel. So this was where Nan was hiding out, and where her doctor friend was going every day to fuck her.
Zecca's first temptation was to go inside also, learn Nan's room number, and burst in on the two of them locked on her bed, then to beat up on old Freeberg until there wasn't an unbroken bone left in the old shit's body, and then to slam Nan around and take her by the hair and drag her back to his home where she belonged.
Eager as he was to have a go at them, some survival instinct inside Tony Zecca restrained him from the act.
If he burst in on them, and beat up on Freeberg, there could be trouble. Zecca might find himself arrested and in the morning headlines. It was the last place anyone high up in the mob would want him to be. Zecca was only on the fringe of the mob, a lesser light financed by it, doing occasional favors for it, but still one of their boys. The mob did not like any of its own being in the hands of the police or on the front pages of papers. Definitely not.
The getting even, he decided, should be done in a quieter and safer place. The getting even should be done by one of the mob's hit men, more expert in these matters than he himself was.
Maybe.
He started back to his Cadillac. He would think about it.
There were two pull-up armchairs in Nan Whitcomb's hotel room, and Dr. Freeberg waited for Nan to occupy one before he took the other. After refusing Nan's offer of white wine, and gaining her permission to allow him to smoke, Dr. Freeberg lighted a cigarillo and sat back.
"I wanted to speak to you," Dr. Freeberg began, "and intended to do so in my office. Then I thought what I had to talk over with you could be discussed most easily in the privacy of your own hotel room rather than in the clinic or downstairs in the hotel bar. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all," said Nan, her curiosity clearly evident. Dr. Freeberg gestured at the room. "I hope you find this comfortable. It was the best I could do when you called."
"I'm grateful you could get me anything."
"Does Mr. Zecca know that you're here?"
"God no, he'd be the last person I'd tell."
"Do you think he'll try to find you?"
Nan shrugged. "I'm not sure. When he found my note, he may have said good riddance. But knowing his ego, I suspect he'll try to find me and drag me back. Even if he traced me, I'd never go back with him, never. Not now."
Dr. Freeberg nodded understandingly. "I can't say that I blame you. You've suffered a particularly brutal experience. But don't think you're alone in that. Your experience, in a way, was not dissimilar to what so many women go through with their husbands or lovers."
Nan seemed surprised. "Really?"
"Usually women with an incompatible mate don't suffer physical brutality, but rather they endure emotional brutality. This is probably because many men get too used to their women and begin to take them for granted. Such men gradually regard their women not only as servants but as someone to service them sexually—someone to have intercourse with—without an exchange of loving and caring, with no time for caressing and enjoying foreplay. These men want only to have their own orgasm and feel better. Such men don't see women as individuals with feelings of their own. They're out of touch with their mates as sensitive human beings to be nurtured and loved."
"You can say that again, in spades, when you speak about somebody like Tony Zecca."
"Mr. Zecca is an extreme example. I simply wanted to reassure you that you are not alone. On a more civilized scale, his behavior goes on all the time everywhere. But soon you'll find there are more thoughtful and sensitive men you can have relationships with . . ."
"I've already learned that, Dr. Freeberg," Nan said, "ever since I met Paul Brandon."
"Yes, of course, Paul Brandon," said Dr. Freeberg, puffing on his cigarillo. "Actually, it's Paul I want to talk to you about."
Nan showed genuine bewilderment. "Talk about what? I've told you all about him, our relationship, in my sessions with you. Haven't I told you everything?"
"Not quite, Nan. Not quite." Dr. Freeberg stamped out the butt of his cigarillo and leaned forward on his chair. "You recall, Nan, don't you, the first meeting we had after you became my patient? The first meeting Paul and I had with you, all three of us together? At that time we made a verbal contract, an agreement. You had a problem, hardly entirely your own. So we set a goal. Through therapy and exercises, we laid out a program that we were confident would help you reach your goal of complete sexual enjoyment. We held nothing back from you. We laid out every aspect of the treatment and exercises. That's true, isn't it?"
"Yes, you did."
"One thing I told you in complete candor. Under my direction, Paul Brandon would professionally help you, be a surrogate partner to teach and direct you. You were paying for Paul's expertise, not for his emotional caring for you. From the start, you knew that your relationship with Paul, while it would become an increasingly intimate one, was a professional relationship, a temporary partnership for a limited number of weeks. You were made to understand that once your surrogate had succeeded in solving your problem, he would have finished his work and would return to his own private life and own personal relationships, and you would have concluded your therapy and would go on with your own private life and your own relationships."
Dr. Freeberg saw that Nan was staring at him, a pained expression on her face. He paused, and waited for her to speak.
"I think I know what you're trying to tell me," Nan said slowly. "You're trying to tell me you think I've fallen in love with Paul, and I shouldn't have."
"That's what I think, Nan, listening and reading between the lines of Paul's reports."
"And you think I've made a mistake?"
"Yes, it's a mistake," Dr. Freeberg said without equivocation. "As your surrogate, Paul cares for you very much—he's developed a bond with you. This is the relationship we hoped would develop between you. It had to develop. But it also has a beginning and an end. Paul is really only a stepping-stone to what is waiting for you in the outside world. Now you both must sever that bond, he to go his way, and you to go yours. He has a private life, and this is merely his work. I repeat, you are paying for his expertise, not for his caring. It would be wrong to expect anything more. Can we discuss it further, Nan?"
She sounded tearful. "No, I don't believe that will be necessary."
"My dear Nan, for everyone the reality of a situation is sometimes difficult to face. I am positive you can do it and be happy soon again." He paused. "Now, how about that glass of wine? Will you pour for both of us?"
In his office in city hall, District Attorney Hoyt Lewis, conscious of the Reverend Scrafield's tense presence across the desk from him, still made an effort to skim the photocopy of Hunter's log a second time.
The journal that Hunter had kept of his exercises with Gayle Miller was meticulous in every detail, and when Lewis finished his hasty second reading he was basically satisfied with the report. Nevertheless, he gave himself a half minute to ponder every aspect of the evidence.
But Scrafield, opposite him, was finding it difficult to contain his own eagerness to proceed. "Hoyt," he demanded, "tell me what you think. It's all there, just like I told you, isn't it?"
"I think so," said Lewis.
"Is anything bothering you?"
"Not really. Perhaps one thing." Lewis dropped the photocopy of Hunter's journal on his desk. "What Hunter refers to here as 'penetration.' It hasn't happened yet. When you depend on one witness, you want everything as explicit as possible."
Scrafield was impatient. "I told you, you don't have to worry. Chet Hunter assures me he'll be humping Gayle tomorrow. He guarantees it and will report to us personally when it's happened."
District Attorney Lewis scratched his nose, lost in thought, and his head made a motion of assent. "Yes, Hunter appears reliable enough. I had him checked out again. His record as a member of the police reserve is perfectly clean, and he's well motivated to come through, according to Ferguson over at the Chronicle. But what's keeping him from screwing the lady? That's not the worst assignment in the world."
"All in due time, Hoyt. He's got to follow their rules, that's all. Don't upset yourself. He'll come through. You can bet on that."
Hoyt Lewis sat up. "I intend to bet on that."
"What's the next step?" Scrafield wanted to know. "How are you going to proceed?"
"The usual way. I'll start with a press release—notify Ferguson what my office plans to do . . . tell him I'm readying a criminal complaint against Dr. Arnold Freeberg for pandering."
"What about Gayle Miller?"
"Not yet, not until she's actually committed her act of prostitution. But we already have sufficient evidence to announce the forthcoming complaint against Freeberg on the pandering charge. So the first announcement will concern Freeberg alone."
"Can I make it the subject of my broadcast tomorrow night?" asked the Reverend Scrafield eagerly.
"No objection, as long as you confine any fire and brimstone to what's contained in my announcement."
"When can I mention the prostitute?"
"As soon as Hunter scores with her," Lewis promised. "That'll be immediately after tomorrow. Then I'll proceed against them jointly, issue arrest warrants against Freeberg for a felony and against the Miller woman for a misdemeanor. I'll have them brought over to the jail to be booked and their bail set, and have them arraigned before a judge in forty-eight hours."
Scrafield was smiling. "And then what?"
Hoyt Lewis also smiled. "Then they go to trial, and both wind up out of business and in the slammer."
"And you'll wind up on every front page," said Scrafield, grinning.
"And so will you, my friend," said Lewis, standing. "If Freeberg and Gayle Miller do their part, we'll do our part. It's in the bag, I promise you."